The Bloody Ground. Bernard Cornwell
Читать онлайн книгу.
The sergeants resented being posted to the battalion and so entertained themselves with petty acts of tyranny that the battalion officers, like Thomas Dennison and his companions, did nothing to alleviate. Sergeant Case appeared to run the battalion and those men who were in his favor prospered while the rest suffered.
Starbuck had talked with some for the men and they, thinking that he was a harmless lieutenant and, besides, the man who had dared to take Case’s prisoner off the horse, were unguarded in what they said. Some, like Caton Rothwell, whom Starbuck had rescued, were keen to fight and were frustrated that Holborrow appeared to have no intention of sending the battalion north to join Lee’s army. Rothwell was not one of the original Yellowlegs, but had been posted to the special Battalion after being found guilty of deserting from his own regiment. “I went to help my family,” he explained to Starbuck. “I just wanted a week’s furlough,” he added, “because my wife was in trouble.”
“What trouble?” Starbuck had asked.
“Just trouble, Lieutenant,” Rothwell said bluntly. He was a big, strong man who reminded Starbuck of Lieutenant Waggoner. Caton Rothwell, Starbuck suspected, would be a good man to have alongside in a fight. Given fifty other such men, Starbuck knew, the battalion could be made as good as any in Lee’s army, but most of the soldiers were near mutinous through boredom and the knowledge that they were the most despised unit in all the Confederate army. They were the Yellowlegs, the lowest of the low, and no one thing was more symptomatic of their status then the guns they had been issued. Those weapons were still in store, but Starbuck had found the key hanging behind the office door and had unlocked the armory shed to find it filled with crates of old smoothbore muskets. Starbuck had brushed the dust off one musket stock and lifted out the weapon. It felt clumsy, while the wooden shaft beneath the barrel had shrunk over the years so that the metal barrel hoops were loose. He peered at the lock and saw the word VIRGINIA stamped there, while behind the hammer was written RICHMOND, 1808. The gun must have been a flintlock originally and at some time updated by conversion to percussion cap, but despite the modernization it was still a horrible weapon. These old muskets, made for killing Redcoats, had no rifling inside the barrel, which meant that the bullet did not spin in its flight and so lacked the accuracy of a rifle. At fifty paces the big-bore 1808 musket might be as lethal as an Enfield rifle, but at any greater range it was hopelessly inaccurate. Starbuck had seen plenty for men carrying such antiquated guns into battle and had felt sorry for them, but he knew for a fact that thousands of modern rifles had been captured from the North during the summer’s campaign, and it seemed perverse to arm his men with these museum pieces. Such antique weapons were a signal to the Special Battalion that they were on the army’s hind teat, but that was probably a truth the men already knew. They were the soldiers no one else wanted.
Sergeant Case had seen the open armory door and come to investigate. His tall body filled the doorway and shadowed the dusty room. “You,” he had said flatly when he saw Starbuck.
“Me,” Starbuck agreed pleasantly enough.
“Got a habit of poking your nose where it don’t belong, Lieutenant,” Case said. His menacing presence loomed in the dusty shed while his flat, hard eyes stared at Starbuck like a predator sizing up its kill.
Starbuck had thrown the musket to the sergeant, thrown it hard enough to make Case step back a pace as he caught it. “You’d want to fight Yankees with one of those, Sergeant?” Starbuck asked.
Case twirled the musket in his big right hand as though it weighted no more than a cornstalk. “They won’t be doing no fighting, Lieutenant. These men ain’t fit to fight. And that’s why you were sent to us.” Case’s small head jerked back and forth on the ludicrous neck as he spat his insults. “Because you ain’t fit to fight. You’re a bloody drunkard, Lieutenant, so don’t give me any talk of fighting. You don’t know what fighting is. I was a Royal Fusilier, boy, a proper soldier, boy, and I know soldiering and I know fighting, and I know you ain’t up to it else you wouldn’t be here.” Case threw the musket hard back, stinging Starbuck’s hands with the impact of the weapon. The tall sergeant stepped further inside the armory and thrust his broken-nosed face close to Starbuck. “And one other thing, boy. You pull rank on me one more time and I’ll nail your hide to a tree and piss all over it. Now put that musket back where you found it, give me the armory key, and bugger off where you belong.”
Not now, Starbuck had told himself, not now. This was not the time to put Case right, and so he had merely put the musket in its box, meekly handed Case the key, and walked away.
Now, at the supper table, Starbuck was again the butt of bullies only this time it was Thomas Dennison and his cronies who had their sport with a man they believed was a weakling. Captain Lippincott rolled a peach to Starbuck. “Reckon you’d prefer a brandy, Potter,” Lippincott said.
“Reckon I would,” Starbuck said.
“Sir,” Dennison said immediately.
“Reckon I would, sir,” Starbuck said humbly. He had to play the fool so long as he decided against revealing his identity, but it went hard on him. He told himself to stay calm and to play the failure for a short while yet.
Lippincott edged his brandy glass toward Starbuck, daring him to take it, but Starbuck did not move. “Of course there’s one thing to be said for being a drunk,” Lippincott said, taking the glass back, “it means you’ll probably sleep away the days here. Better than sitting around doing nothing. Ain’t that right, Potter?”
“Right,” Starbuck agreed.
“Sir,” Dennison said, then hiccuped.
“Sir,” Starbuck said.
“I ain’t saying I’m not grateful for being here,” Lippincott went on gloomily, “but, hell, they could give us some entertainment.”
“Plenty in Richmond,” Dennison said airily.
“If you’ve got the money,” Lippincott acknowledged, “which I ain’t.”
Dennison stretched back in his chair. “You’d rather be in a fighting regiment?” he asked Lippincott. “They could always transfer you. If that’s what you want, Dan, I’ll tell Holborrow you’re eager to go.” Lippincott, a sallow man with a fringe of beard, said nothing. Most of the Yellowlegs officers had been transferred, either to garrison duty or to the provosts, but a few had been posted to fighting battalions, a fate that plainly worried these remaining captains, though not Dennison, whose skin disease was sufficient to keep him out of harm’s way. He gingerly touched one of the horrid sores on his face. “If the doctors could just cure this,” he said in a tone that suggested he was confident that the disease was incurable, “I’d volunteer for a transfer.”
“You are taking the medicine, Tom?” Lippincott asked.
“Of course I am,” Dennison snapped. “Can’t you smell it?”
Starbuck could indeed smell something medicinal, and the smell was oddly familiar; a thin rank odor that disturbed him, but which he could not quite place. “What medicine is it, sir?” he asked.
Dennison paused while he considered whether the question constituted impudence, then he shrugged. “Kerosene,” he answered after a while.
Starbuck frowned. “Is it ringworm?” he asked, then added, “sir.”
Dennison sneered. “One year at medical college and you know it all, is that it? You mind your own damn business, Potter, and I’ll mind the advice of a proper doctor.”
Lippincott looked back at the glistening sores and shuddered. “It’s all right for you, Tom,” he said resentfully, “but what if this Starbuck wants us to fight? Holborrow can’t keep us here forever.”
“Holborrow’s a colonel,” Dennison said, hiccuping again, “and Starbuck’s a major, so Holborrow will get what he wants and Starbuck can go piss himself. And hell,” he went on resentfully, “none of us should be serving under Starbuck. He’s a goddamn Northerner and I ain’t taking orders from any goddamn Northerner.”
Cartwright,